Figments
by Colorblind City
Summary: "You are too beautiful to be a figment of my imagination." The boy raised a delicately trimmed, brunette eyebrow and said: "I don't know whether I should be flattered or scared of you." AU, Dream related, Klaine. Shhh, just come and give it a try...
1. Figment

So... I'm not sure where this is going, the idea has been stuck in my mind for a while now, but i just couldn't seem to put it down on words, hopefully it doesn't suck, it's my first time writing Klaine, though i have a bunch of unfinished Klaine fics sitting in my computer, gathering dust.

I just want my mojo back! tomorrow (or today in a couple of hours, anyway) is my birthday and i kind of wanted to get something done so that maybe i can recover from this awful writer's block.

So just read and let me know if it's worth continuing, for i do have a bit of a plot developing in my head.

* * *

><p>You know how the expression "The boy of my dreams" is only a figure of speech?<p>

Well, for Blaine, it's literal.

He doesn't quite remember the very first time they met, and he guesses that's fine because, after meeting as many times as they have, circumstances cease to matter. It's only the "lasts" that he worries about, but he guesses, too, that they'll cross that bridge when they get there.

The first memory he has of his dream boy is a fuzzy one.

They're in some sort of pier, standing a few feet away from each other, and when he does notice the boy in the long, gray raincoat, he gets the feeling that he didn't just appear there all of a sudden, he gets the feeling that the boy has been there for as long as himself, and that he hadn't noticed him before because he was lost in a reverie, one he remembers nothing about. Blaine stares, maybe a little too pointedly, until the boy looks his way. That's where his memory starts to fail him, but with some help from his imagination, he manages to convince himself that the boy smiled at him. Sometimes he spices it up a little and adds a fake memory of the boy waving his way in a "We know each other, silly!" fashion.

Anyway, it hardly matters. Embellishments to a poor event are pointless when he has so many other memories far more interesting to ponder on.

Like that time they came out to each other.

It's not like it wasn't evident, and after all, it's not like they were actually going to engage in some sort of relationship.

That's what _he_ said.

Blaine noted, then, that dream guys aren't even remotely close to what people make of them. Still, that doesn't make Blaine's dream guy any less dreamy. Guess if there's something people are right about is that love is blind.

Yes, Blaine loves him. Sometimes he thinks it's really, awfully silly, because he knows it's just a figment of his imagination, and he knows he's only fooling himself, but to tell the truth? Blaine has never been happier than when they're together, sitting on their little bench that looks out to the ocean, lake, river or whatever it is they are facing.

Is he really that messed up? Doesn't everybody dream?

Blaine looks beside him, and the boy,_ his_ boy, is gazing wistfully into the horizon. The sun is rising, and they both know what that means. Blaine reaches for the boy's hand, which was laying helplessly upon the boy's thigh. His (Blaine tries to block out the adjective 'well-toned') thighs which are clad in ridiculously patterned pants. Blaine thinks it's cute, the way his imagination can come up with those outrageous outfits. He never considered himself fashion designer material, and the boy is always so well-dressed, so Blaine had started to Google detailed descriptions of the clothes… only to find that they were in fact by some this or that designer, something Alex and Queen and Jacobs and he feels disappointed, for it seems his subconscious mind has been committing plagiary.

He regrets nothing, though. As long as the boy keeps wearing those tightly fitted jeans, he doesn't care if he gets sued for stealing other people's imagination.

He wonders about that, too. From where is his imagination stealing this beautiful boy?

For months, Blaine spent every ounce of free time he ever had watching every movie and T.V. show there was, trying to find the actor who must have inspired this strange being. Because he is sure that his poorly fed imagination could never have come up with those ever-changing blue eyes on its own.

"You are too beautiful to be a figment of my imagination."

And at this, said figment blushes, squeezing their joined hands. It's not the first time Blaine's said this, so it's not as awkward as it probably should be.

The first time Blaine said this to the boy of his dreams, he hadn't meant to say it out loud, but as it happens with dreams, you can't really hold back your thoughts, they're running around in giant, brightly colored letters, like in Sesame Street or some children's show of sorts. No secrets can be held between the both of them.

So the first time Blaine approached the boy, he voiced the very first thing that his mind came up with.

"You are too beautiful to be a figment of my imagination."

The boy raised a delicately trimmed, brunette eyebrow and said: "I don't know whether I should be flattered or scared of you."

And that's how their first conversation started.

Blaine sighs contentedly, forcing down the need to snort under his breath at the memory. The boy beside him straight out laughs, and it's Blaine's turn to blush. He tends to forget that the boy can quite literally read his mind, as he is a part of it.

"Are you ever going to let that go?"

"No. You should've seen your face, it was adorable."

"I'm so glad you take pleasure in my discomfort."

"Always."

They don't speak again after that.

The sun becomes a semicircle in the sky, and the boy stands, letting go of Blaine's hand. Blaine gives him that look he always gives him. The one full of longing and despair. The boy smiles sadly, holding Blaine's gaze for a moment that seems to end too quickly, before he turns around and walks to the edge of the pier and jumps into the deep, cold water.

Blaine knows he's supposed to follow, and it's almost alright. He doesn't want to stay there without him. It's _their_ place. It feels empty without one of the parties that form the _them_.

Blaine allows himself to say _them_, but never _us_. It's kind of stupid, but like the boy said: "It's not like they're in a relationship or anything", so _us_ is kind of forbidden.

_For now._

Yes, Blaine still hopes the boy of his dreams will, one day, want to be his boyfriend. The worst part is that, since he is nothing but a work of fiction created by Blaine himself, Blaine should have some sort of power over the boy's decisions. But this boy is something else entirely, he seems to have a mind of his own.

Yes, Blaine has tried to control him. It was so fruitless that Blaine had almost wanted to cry because… how pathetic has he got to be that he can't even influence his own fantasies?

It takes him a while before he can look away from the place where the boy disappeared. The sun is full now, hanging low on the sky, which is losing its rosy tint and becoming bluer with every passing second. Blaine knows he has to go, he can't be late for school for the fourth day in a row.

Before plunging into the water, though, he stops and sits down on the edge of the pier, examining the wood under him. It takes him a moment to find them, and he always fears next time they won't be there, but for this time, the marks are there. He stopped counting after two hundred, but he still adds one every night. He knows one of these days he'll feel the need to sit down and count them, but he tries to hold back for as long as possible. When he does count them, he wants to be surprised, he wants to smile and shake his head in denial, thinking "Has it really been that long?"

But most importantly, he is waiting for the day when he's gathered enough courage to show them to the boy. He wants to see the soft smile that he's sure will arise the corners of his pink (deliciously pink) lips, and he wants to hold his hand and gaze meaningfully into his eyes, and maybe that day, the boy will realize how deeply Blaine cares for him, how much Blaine cherishes their time together. Maybe that day, he'll have enough courage to ask the boy to be his boyfriend.

Blaine carves a mark into the wood with his short nails. It would be quite the accomplishment, he thinks, if this wasn't a dream and the wood wasn't as malleable as Blaine's mind makes it be.

He jumps, then, and wakes up in his cold bed, alone and impatient for the day to be over so he can go to sleep again.

* * *

><p>Thoughts, anyone?<p> 


	2. Reality

_Hi there, thank you so much for your support, lovely reviews and for those who added this to alerts and favorites. _

_I'm sorry for the long wait, but my father died two months ago, and everything in my life is mess right now, it's hard to focus on basically anything._

_Hope you enjoy, and I'll try to have next chapter sooner. _

* * *

><p>Ok, Blaine's lying. Sue him, if you please.<p>

He does remember the first time he saw _him, _really, truly saw him, but he blatantly brushed it off. Or perhaps _sneezed it off_ would be more accurate. He was so, so very _sick _that day, he can't take seriously anything he did, said or saw.

He was just walking dazedly around school, occasionally stopping in the middle of the hall to close his eyes and concentrate on the knowledge that he was actually headed somewhere, and trying to remember in which direction that somewhere was. Just as the classrooms were filling up and Blaine was left wondering aimlessly, trying to make it to trigonometry, he caught a glimpse of ridiculously familiar, knee long trousers with a kilt-like print. It was odd enough to find a boy without uniform in a private school, and feeling a lot like Alice when she went after the rabbit, Blaine followed the boy down the adjacent hall, and then all the way to the parking lot. Blaine saw him get inside a black navigator and slam the door shut rather angrily, before taking off.

Blaine didn't even get to see his face.

And then again, throughout the morning he had drank half a bottle of cough syrup.

In Spanish class he had started writing his notes in a messy attempt at Spanglish that was more on the English side than anything. Not to mention that at lunch he actually took a bite off his sandwich and started chewing before David pointed out that he hadn't removed the plastic wrap. Oh, and in case you were wondering, he did make it to trigonometry, and he spent the whole class writing a poem about the characteristics of equilateral triangles, a full-of-sentiment, tear-jerking poem in which he expressed his undying conviction that all triangles are different and unique and beautiful in their own way and should be treated equally, no matter how many sides they have.

He thinks he might have sung something about swimming across empty lands during Warblers rehearsal, but he was so constipated that maybe it just came out muffled, or something. Whatever. Blaine basically erased that day from his memory, because it was better to remember it only when David asks whether Blaine would like some plastic wrap to condiment his food.

He puts it behind, because his life is a mess without adding a silly crush to it. He tries not to think of him when awake, tries to focus, to live his life. And then enjoy their time together at night, without reservations, taking as much as he can get and giving back all of his heart. Because Blaine loves him. Loves him so, and it hurts at the same time that it makes him feel weightless, fearless... when he is held tightly, when their noses rub together sweetly...

Blaine remembers clearly the first time it happened.

That night there were street lamps where there didn't use to be, casting a quasi-candlelight glow over the pier. There was no soft mattress beneath them, nor covers to hide them from the world, only hard wood and the summer breeze to brush against their skins. They connect in the deepest of ways, and sharing that kind of intimacy makes him feel fragile, breakable, but so loved and cherished. Worshiped, almost, as hands trail lightly across his skin and brush secret places. He returns it in kind, with a fervor and devotion he didn't know he was capable of. He feels his heart fill up to the brim then explode, bringing him to tears and sobs because he's never felt this _full_ in his life.

And it's sweet and it's tender and it's full-of-sentiment, all languid, inexperienced kisses and soft words whispered in close-by ears. It is everything Blaine ever dreamed it would be...

Except it _is_ only a dream, and Blaine wakes up cold and sticky and in serious need of a shower.

The metaphorical fall is higher and he hits the metaphorical ground hardly with a gasp of surprise, because he didn't expect to feel so empty and... despaired. He sobs in the bathroom floor for an hour or so, rinsing himself carefully, because he can't scrub away the lingering electricity in his pores, the tease of fingertips on his skin, and he isn't sure whether he actually wants to get rid of it or keep it with himself for the rest of the day.

He knows he needs to compartmentalize. Neatly separate his two different realities. Because in the cruel world of the awake, he has school, he has college coming up, he has his parents to deal with. His parents...

After a long and heated discussion on how much Blaine did _not _want to become a lawyer versus how much a career in music depends on luck rather than talent, Blaine and his parents had come to an agreement.

Blaine would be a musician, as in, _classical music_ musician. He would go to Julliard -even though he always wanted to go off to Cali and get a recording deal- and he would become a _-_ist, because apparently guitars make musicians more inclined towards pop music, or so his father says. Piano was also out of the question, because apparently everyone wants to play it and suddenly his parents care about his area of expertise being too mainstream.

"We just want to make sure you can find good job opportunities." It's hard to think of it that way, it feels as though they reject everything he wants just to make him miserable.

The worst part is that Blaine's been having music lessons for as long as he can remember, and he has tried out, at least once, almost every single instrument you could find in an Orchestra, and although the piano and the cello were nice enough to pursue for a while, he never quite connected with them the way he connects with a guitar, there's something so unique about the way he can feel the vibrations in his chest every time he strums a chord; he's not just playing, he's embracing the music, quite literally. He is holding the harmonic vibrations close to his heart and it's almost as good as when he sings, because he can practically feel the music inside of him.

So Blaine settles for the cello, since it's probably the closest thing to a guitar his parents will let him have (a mandolin would've been nice, but his father can't tell the difference from that and a guitar, so Blaine didn't even bother mentioning it). At least the cello sits between his legs, his arms surround it, embrace it as he plays, _like a lover, _he thinks, trying hard not to blush, the vibrations reach him still, rummaging through his chest and reverberating to his very core, a low, soft rumble that reminds him vaguely of a growl...

And he guesses, at the end of the day, that he won't be miserable if he has to play it for hours on end.

Graduation comes too fast, his last days of camaraderie and support slip away through his fingers and far before he's ready to, he has to leave the comfort of Dalton's halls. He makes promises like his life depends on it, during those days. He promises Wes and David that he'll visit them in Stamford for Spring Break, he promises Thad and Trent to not be a stranger, he promises Nick and Jeff that he'll (illegally) have a few beers with them every week or so, since they'll be living in the same city even if on different ends of it, and he promises along with all the Warblers that they'll have yearly reunions in the very same music room in which they learned that once a Warbler, you won't get rid of these parasites you call friends even if you want to.

Saying goodbye to his parents is not as hard. It consists mainly of "Yes, mom, I'll call at least once a week" and "Yes, dad, I promise to audition for the symphonic orchestra every year until I'm accepted." After that, off to Julliard he goes.

It's nice enough, he gets to hear, see, eat, _breathe _music for the next five-or-so years of his life. Even still, he gets a little pseudo-job playing guitar and singing in a small café, and every now and then he still scribbles a few verses across napkins he'll later misplace or forget to take out of his pockets before doing the laundry. It doesn't matter, the words are all up inside his head, they don't go away.

Neither does _he_. He never goes away, and it seems he only embeds himself closer to Blaine's heart, he's not just in the privacy of Blaine's dorm anymore.

To be fair, it's not that Blaine doesn't remember or doesn't _want_ to remember, it's just that ninety-nine percent of time, Blaine is pretty much sure that he _has _to be hallucinating. Or maybe daydreaming, if hallucinating sounds too harsh and loony-bin-worthy. Yeah, considering Blaine has only ever seen him in dreams, daydreaming is probably the right term.

Because it came down to a point when Blaine saw him everywhere: Out in the streets, in coffee-shops, in campus, in the subway…

Of course Blaine never stopped to think that he only started seeing him so often once he moved to New York for college. Of course, yeah, right, never spared a thought. And it's not like he started looking for him either, no, no way would he ever do that. He wasn't taking long strolls down Broadway Avenue because he had heard him whistle a show tune a few years ago, no, that wasn't the reason at all, he just really likes taking long walks and seeing the happy faces of the tourists. Of course.

Because it was so stupid to go looking for him when Blaine could see him and talk to him and _be_ with him every single night. So, so stupid and so very pointless.

Moths pass, they turn into years and at some point, Blaine decided it was time to try dating. He couldn't live inside his little bubble of fantasy forever, right? That's not how life is supposed to go by.

So date he did, and to say the outcome was disastrous would be an understatement. Guy after guy that Blaine just couldn't look in the eyes because they weren't _his_ eyes, guys Blaine couldn't crack a joke to because when they laughed their nose didn't crinkle like _his,_ guys whose hands Blaine had to reject when they tried to hold his over the table, because their hands didn't look like those of a porcelain figurine.

After each and every one, he would go back to his dorm, lay down on his forever un-made bed and sob himself to sleep. What was wrong with him? Sure, everybody has fantasies but why in hell can't he let it go already? He was 21 already, for god's sake! It had been almost five years since it all started!

All he wants is somebody to hold him while he feels like this, like a broken toy that didn't meet the quality requirements of the fabric and was put to sale at a lower price. He feels so tired, so damaged, and when he walks to sit down beside _him_, on _their _bench, and _he_ smiles that barely-there smile that Blaine likes to think is only meant for him, Blaine wants to cry with both despair and relief.

Because maybe, just maybe, as long as he still has him, dreams will have to make do.


End file.
